The Season To Be Jolly
by McMoni
Summary: 'Tis the season to be jolly...but is it for everyone? John, in truth, is not really feeling the Christmas spirit. Will the new number help the guys get into the right mood? Set around early Season 2. Some John Whump.
1. Chapter 1

**_Author's Note:_ Hi! I'm back, this time with a Christmas story. **  
**I had hoped to manage to publish this a few days ago, but life got in my way and so I'm kind of late. I thought that I could post it anyway, even if I won't be able to finish it in time for Christmas.**  
 **And so, here it is! I hope you'll enjoy it.**

 **As usual, a huge, huge thank you goes to _DancingInTheDark85_ , who encouraged me to write this and helped me by betareading it as soon as I was ready. Her support and friendship mean a great deal to me.**

 **If you feel like it, leave me some feedback and let me know what you think: it's my first Christmas story. _Ever_.**

* * *

 **Chapter One**

Reese usually didn't mind surveillance. It required patience and stealth and perseverance, and those were all qualities well ingrained in him, thanks to the years spent at the CIA service.

The boredom and the forced silence of the long hours spent in surveillance had never bothered him too much – on the contrary, sometimes the quiet solitude of that particular task was a welcome change from the everyday violent mayhem of his job – current and previous.

But tonight was different. It had been a long week, with too many numbers in a rapid succession – some of them even overlapping – and way too few hours of sleep in between, and spending a whole afternoon freezing his ass in a car was not helping his cranky mood.

He rubbed his icy hands together, trying to ease the stiffness of his fingers, but to no avail. Small clouds of condensation formed with every exhale even inside the car and he tugged the coat collar closer to his neck in a vain attempt to preserve some heat. It had mostly stopped snowing a few hours ago, aside from a few frozen flakes floating around in the occasional gust of chilly wind, but the temperature remained below zero.

The number he had been watching and following around for the last couple of days – a well dressed and impeccably groomed middle-aged investment broker with a serious gambling problem – had fallen prey of a gang in the racket of illegal betting and money-lenders, and had accepted to get involved in some shady drug deal to pay off his considerable debt.

A shady deal that might cost his life. Reese sighed, his eyes never leaving the building entrance in which the number had vanished more than an hour before. He wasn't exactly sorry for the guy – he was responsible for his own, very wrong decisions – but to his credit, he had probably no idea about what he was getting himself involved in.

The building was pretty run-down. Most of the windows were boarded up, the walls peeling in places. It was just a few days before Christmas, and some dim decorative lights were hanging from the windows of the few occupied apartments, but they did nothing to brighten up the overall gloomy appearance of the area – if anything, Reese felt they only added to the bleakness.

In truth, he didn't particularly care for Christmas in general, not anymore. There had been a time when he had – back when he thought he had a whole life of endless possibilities ahead of him – but those days were long gone.  
Back then, he used to love the lights, the music, the decorations, the happiness of the season.  
But things had changed. He still appreciated them, in a way – there was after all an inherent _beauty_ in all of those things that was hard to miss. But they also brought a deep melancholy – almost grief. They made him think about the life he would never live, the family he would never have, the sense of coziness and belonging he would never feel.

He tapped the earbud, more to distract himself from such morose reflections than out of a real need to communicate with Finch.

" _Mr. Reese?"_ Harold's questioning voice promptly sounded in his ear. The oppressive, silent loneliness lifted a bit.

"Finch," he greeted, then he stopped. He didn't have anything in particular to say.

" _Is Mr. Patterson still in the building?"_

"Yeah. Should be out soon, though," Reese replied, glancing at his watch. "Is Fusco in position?"

" _Yes, Mr. Reese. You still sure this is going to work?"_

"I don't see why it shouldn't," the ex-op patiently replied. It was a simple plan, really. They would let the number get out of the building with the drugs, Reese would stop him before he got the meeting and Fusco would arrest him. Easy and relatively safe. Or, as safe as it could be, considering it involved a desperate and inexpert man at his first crime – illegal betting aside.

" _By the way, we got a new number,"_ Finch informed him after a brief pause. Reese let his hands drop to his sides and frowned in disappointment. He had hoped for a brief respite after Patterson's number, at least in order to catch up on some sleep, but no such luck. He could hear Harold typing in the background and figured the older man was carrying out the usual preliminary research. "Name?" he asked, careful to keep his tone neutral.

" _Jacob Stein,_ " Harold stated. " _He's 73. No living family members as far as I can see and…oh, this is weird_ ," he commented under his breath. Further typing could be heard through the earpiece, but no more information came.

"Finch?" Reese prompted, his interest piqued. "What is weird?"

" _I was looking for more details about his private life, in particular what he did for a living_ ," Harold explained, " _and, well, apparently Mr. Stein is…Santa Claus_."

Reese blinked, perplexed. "Santa Claus," he slowly repeated, trying to make sense of Harold's information.

" _Yes. He's an actor, specialized in playing that part. Movies, tv shows, even a Christmas party at the White House some years ago,"_ Harold said. " _Now he mostly works in shopping malls during Christmas time."_

"That's…unusual," John commented. Indeed, it seemed like a rather bizarre career choice, John thought. But then again, he mused, perhaps he wasn't in the best position to dispute other people's call, given his own work history.

" _Oh, look, he played Santa in that '77 movie,"_ Harold was still blabbering in the background _. "It's a classic and-"_

But Reese wasn't listening anymore. He had kept his eyes on the building across the street, so he saw Patterson as soon as he got out. The broker nervously looked around before heading off toward the intersection at the far end of the street, clinging to a black briefcase as if for dear life.

"Finch," he cut him off, "Patterson's out. Gotta go."

He slid out of the car, the cold and stiffness forgotten, securing the gun in his waistband. He was actually planning not to use it – the area wasn't exceedingly populated even in normal circumstances, let alone in this bad weather, so that wouldn't have been an issue. But, as much as they had gathered, Patterson wasn't a violent man and Reese hoped to be able to stop him without needing to use force. Or, at least without using a gun.

"Tell Fusco to be ready."

He quickly crossed the street, mentally reviewing the layout of the area, cataloguing all the possible escape routes Patterson might choose.

He had almost caught up with the broker and was about to attract his attention when he realized that the other man's right hand, till now hidden in the coat pocket, was tightly gripping a gun. Bad news. John had only got a glimpse of the broker, but his edginess had been obvious. A desperate and scared man in a tight spot holding a gun was a recipe for disaster.

"Uh-oh."

" _What?"_

"He's armed," Reese quietly explained, pulling his own gun and mentally evaluating his options. He was loath to shoot him point blank – Patterson might be brandishing a gun, but whether he was actually going to use it, or even able to do so, remained to be seen. Yet, he needed to stop him, stat. Rapidly deciding it was a case for Detective Stills, he shouted, "Hey! Police, drop your gun!"

Patterson whipped around, his eyes widening in terror as he took in Reese pointing his weapon at him. The firearm in the broker's hand trembled furiously, the knuckles white, and John noted in alarm that he had the safety off.

Well, that proved he was at least able enough with guns to know how to remove the safety.

"Drop it," he repeated, his tone calm and firm.

"Who the hell are you?" Patterson sputtered, without lowering the gun. He was pale and sweaty, clearly scared out of his mind.

"Detective Stills, NYPD," Reese said smoothly. He heard Finch scoff in his earbud, but the older man didn't comment further. "Now drop the gun and the briefcase."

At the mention of the case Patterson bristled and, if anything, his grip on the handle tightened further.

He shook his head vehemently and whispered, "they're going to kill me."

"No, they won't, if you let me help," Reese coaxed. "But we have to be quick."

Patterson stilled, staring at him, considering his words. Despite the biting cold, his hair was plastered to his forehead, his breathing fast and shallow as if he had just run a marathon.

For a moment, it looked like Reese had got through him. Patterson's stance relaxed minutely and he was beginning to lower his weapon, but the sudden, loud wail of an approaching squad car – Lionel's untimely arrival – broke the spell.

Patterson panicked. He swiftly threw the briefcase at John and fled.

Reese cursed under his breath as he dodged the case– at the sudden noise that had spooked the broker, at the other man's unpredictable change of heart and, above all, at his own stupidity for lowering his guard – and immediately leapt in pursuit.

It was clear that Patterson had no real plan at this point. He was fueled by desperation as he ran for his life. He suddenly turned and shot blindly a couple of times – both bullets went flying way over Reese's head but he ducked anyway behind a parked car and he fleetingly wondered whether the broker was simply a lousy shot or he was just trying to scare his pursuer off.

" _Mr. Reese?_ " Finch definitely sounded alarmed.

"Little busy, Finch," John growled under his breath.

The siren wail was getting closer. "Tell Fusco to get the case," he instructed, getting up from his crouch and checking Patterson's position. "It's probably full of meth or coke or whatever." There wasn't anyone else around, but leaving it sitting on the sidewalk for anyone to find was hardly a wise idea.

Patterson had gained some advantage and Reese quickened his pace. Completely spooked and armed, the other man was a loose cannon, a danger to others as much as to himself and John was determined to stop him before someone else was unlucky enough to cross his path.

Reese deftly avoided a trashcan with a jump and aimed without stopping or slowing down.

Another block and a half and Patterson would have reached the intersection with the main road – from there, the escape routes and the chances of running into innocent bystanders increased way too much for John's liking. He couldn't let it happen.

Reese fired as he crossed the street – a precise shot that hit Patterson in the back of his left knee and the broker dropped to the ground with a scream, his gun flying from his hand and clattering on the pavement a few meters ahead.

John didn't have the chance to rejoice, though. He heard a sudden, loud and very close noise of screeching tires at his right and he turned - just in time to see the hood of a pickup slamming into him, and everything went black.

 **To be continued...**

 **Thanks for reading...and Merry Christmas!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Here's chapter 2.**

 **As always, thanks to _DancingInTheDark85_ , who always manages to take the time to proof my chapters and make them better. If you still haven't, check out her story, " _Damned If You Do_ ", a truly wonderful Reese&Finch adventure!**

* * *

 **Chapter 2**

When he reopened his eyes, it took a few seconds before things started to make sense.

There were a lot of overlapping, confusing noises – a door slamming, a screeching of tires, someone screaming in the distance, someone else cursing freely closer by and another frantic and quite loud voice in his ear. Something freezing cold was pressing against his right cheek and neck, and he felt wetness seeping through his clothes.

He blinked a couple of times, clearing his vision. Everything was tilted to the side.

He blinked again and finally focused. He was lying on the asphalt, where he had landed after the car had hit him. He was partly lying on a pile of snow – luckily, it had softened his fall and prevented his head from slamming on hard concrete.

He breathed slowly, taking stock. The impact with the car and the subsequent one with the asphalt had definitely winded him, and he was sure he was going to be sore all over soon, but he was almost certain there was nothing seriously wrong. His chest, which had taken the brunt of the collision, was already aching, and there must be some scrapes on his head and face since the snow was stained with blood and some was annoyingly trickling down his brow.

He looked up and the source of the cursing was immediately revealed – Fusco was crouching down next to him, an alarmed look on his sweaty face.

" _Mr. Reese? Mr. Reese?!"_

The frantic voice in his ear, repeatedly calling his name– Finch – rivaled with Lionel's loud swearing, calling for his attention.

"Hey, Wonderboy, you still in one piece?" the Detective finally asked, all the while patting him down quite ineffectively, probably looking for evident injuries.

"Yeah," Reese exhaled in answer to both, and swatted Lionel's hands away. "'m fine."

He tried to roll on his right side to get up, but again Fusco's hand shot out to stop him.

"Whoa, wait," the burly cop exclaimed. "You sure nothing's broken? Bastard got you good, then he got away like he had the devil at his heels."

"I said I'm fine," Reese snapped. "Where's Patterson?"

"Over there. He's not going anywhere soon," Lionel scoffed, waving a hand in his left direction where Patterson was still sprawled on the sidewalk, clutching his leg and whimpering softly. "You mushed up his knee or something. He needs an ambulance, but maybe so do you," he added, turning his attention back on Reese and eying him critically.

"Like hell I do," John growled in all response, and he shrugged Fusco's restraining hand off from his shoulder with a sharp movement. "Help me up instead, then go arrest him or something, before we attract any more attention."

" _Mr. Reese, are you sure this is a wise idea?"_ Finch's tone sounded alarmed.

"Will you stop ordering me around! I'm not your fucking dog," Fusco grumbled under his breath, but he reluctantly grabbed Reese under his arm and slowly pulled him up.

A sudden pain exploded in his chest on his right side, taking him by surprise, and he let out an involuntary gasp. Hadn't it been for Fusco's hands still on his arms, he would've crumpled to the ground.

"What?"

" _What?"_

Both voices shouted in alarm but he couldn't answer, not right now. He gritted his teeth against the fiery pain, but breathing seemed impossible. It took all his willpower to regain control, and then he was finally able to catch his breath, careful to keep his inhales shallow.

"I'm fine," he repeated for what seemed the umpteen time that night, "must've cracked a rib."

Again, the Detective was staring at him with a dubious and obviously worried expression.

"Glasses?" he asked, his tone tentative. Reese blinked, perplexed, then remembered that Finch had been in contact with both of them simultaneously. Fusco was evidently asking Finch for indications about what to do next.

" _Bring him to the car, Detective, then please take care of Patterson_ ," Harold promptly took point, his previous frenzied panic swept away by pragmatism and purposefulness. " _A call reporting shots in your area is just about to come in and another squad car will be joining you soon_." His tone was firm and businesslike as he issued instructions, and something flashed on Fusco's face as he hurried to follow Finch's directions – definitely relief at having someone else planning the next steps, but also something else, something Reese could have sworn was akin to respect for the billionaire's level head.

" _I'm sending you an address, Detective,"_ Harold went on, and right on cue Fusco's phone beeped, signaling an incoming message. _"It's a safe place not far from your current location. As soon as the ambulance and the cruiser get there to take Patterson, you're going to take Mr. Reese there."_

"There's no need Finch," John jumped in, scowling. "I don't need a safe house. And I _can_ drive."

"For Christ sake, you just got run over by a truck," Lionel snorted in exasperation, as he maneuvered Reese to lean on the side of the car as he opened the door. "How could _that_ be a good idea?"

Reese bristled at Fusco's tone. "I told you –"

"-that you're fine, yeah, we got it," the Detective cut him off, rolling his eyes. "That's why you're pale as a sheet."

" _Mr. Reese, wait for the Detective, and stay in the car,"_ Harold chimed in in a no-nonsense tone.

A sudden pain stabbed him again in his side as Fusco helped him on the passenger seat, preventing him from further arguing his point, and John let the matter drop. He didn't actually have much choice on the matter – breathing was already proving to be quite a challenge, he didn't have air to spare. On top of that, being in wet clothes in this cold only added to the misery, causing shivers to painfully ripple through his upper body, and he had to concentrate on relaxing his muscles.

"There," Fusco exclaimed, patting him on a shoulder. "Don't move."

With that, he slammed the door shut, completely unaware of Reese's withering glance – or more likely purposefully ignoring it.

And so there he was, again sitting alone in a freezing car, Reese bitterly mused. He was cold and in pain, but most of all he was angry with himself for the debacle and annoyed at being sidelined. He absentmindedly wiped his stinging forehead with icy fingers, which came away bloody. A small cut over his eyebrow was still slowly bleeding a little.

Biting back a sigh, he let his gaze wander outside the car window, as he listened to Finch giving Fusco further directions. Small, icy flakes had just begun to whirl quite heavily in the air, sticking to the windows of the car and blurring the halo of the dim Christmas lights of the adjacent building and muffling the sounds coming from the outside the vehicle.

He looked away from the lights and the snow.

Somehow, he found the sight even more depressing than before.

* * *

"I really do think you should get checked out, Mr. Reese," Finch anxiously declared for the third time, a frown marring his features as John carefully touched again his chest where he had found two broken ribs. Harold had insisted on seeing and touching the damage of the impact, but he had gone deathly pale at the crunchy feeling he had felt under his fingers - typical of broken ribs, but evidently the older man didn't have much experience on the matter. "It makes a strange sound – it's not normal!"

John was sitting on the couch of one of Harold's countless safe houses, and Finch had been hovering beside him since Fusco had let driven him there before going back to the Precinct to take care of Patterson's case.

"It is normal, Harold," the ex-op patiently replied, slightly out of breath, "it's a broken rib."

"No, first of all it's _two_ broken ribs," Harold corrected him. "Which could lead to severe organ damage," the older man insisted quite frantically. "They could puncture your lungs or spleen or, or – or whatever there is next to them!"

Reese smiled drily. "Someone put to good use the medicine section of the Library, I see," he joked.

"Very funny," Harold bristled, sounding quite miffed. "Maybe I just happen to have a little more common sense than you. Unlike you, I think that life-threatening injuries shouldn't be disregarded that easily."

"Just kidding, Finch," Reese raised his hands in a placating gesture, his self-exam complete. "By the way, there is no other _life-threatening injury_. Just those ribs. And they're not life-threatening."

"Sure, you make it sound like it's nothing of consequence," Finch scoffed accusingly.

Reese refrained from shrugging – a movement that was better be avoided for a while – but his tone was nonchalant enough, almost bordering on impatience, as he said, "they'll heal, Finch. Now we just wrap them and I'll be as good as new. More or less."

"Ah, no, no, no, that's not a good idea," Harold's objection was rather steadfast. "Tight binding of the chest is actually advised against, because it hinders a correct respiration."

Reese blinked, taken aback by the accuracy of the other man's information. It was clear that Finch had actually done some research on the subject, whether on books or on the web, and it was obvious he had absorbed quite a great deal of information. _When_ he had done so, or _why_ , was less obvious, but he had the sneaky suspicion that he was the reason. John _did_ end up quite often a little worse for wear, with nobody else but Finch to rely on, so it made sense that he might be the cause for the older man's extemporaneous interest in field medicine.

"But if I don't wrap'em, moving around could be dangerous," he argued, as he rummaged into the first aid kit, looking for a suitable bandage and finding none. "I know what I'm doing, Finch."

"Then _don't move_ ," Harold retorted in a clipped tone. "Take it as a Christmas break. Rest, sleep, whatever works. Just stay still."

Reese raised an eyebrow and gave up his unsuccessful quest. "Christmas break? And what about Santa Claus?"

"Santa… _What?_ " the older man stared at him uncomprehendingly – alarmed, almost. Finch's stare fixed on John's eyes, as if checking his pupils for anomalies.

John resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "The _number_ , Finch. Jacob What's-his-name. The one who plays Santa in movies."

"Oh, right. _That_ Santa Claus," Finch nodded as understanding dawned. He frowned in concentration, evidently pondering the problem at hand. "Well," he slowly began, "we might ask one of the Detective to handle the situation."

"Carter's away with her kid for Christmas break," John replied, "and Fusco…well, he seemed a bit unenthusiastic at the prospect of working around the holidays. He's still taking care of Patterson." He tapped a finger on the first aid kit and added, "you wouldn't happen to have some elastic bandages stashed somewhere, would you?"

Finch sighed in resignation. "I'll go check. But," he added, as he limped toward the bathroom, "I still think that you really ought to be seen by a doctor. Have an x-ray taken, or something," he went on. "And stay still," he reiterated. According to the faint, rustling sounds coming from the other room, he was engrossed in the search of the required item, even if he clearly disapproved of Reese's plan of self-medication. He finally re-emerged in the main room, bandages in hand, offering them to Reese for inspection.

Reese nodded his approval, and gestured for a scowling Finch to help him wrap his deeply bruised chest. It didn't take too long – it wasn't John's first broken rib, not by a long shot, so he knew the drill, and Finch's ministrations were gentle but to the point – and before long, the ex-op was putting some clean clothes on. He took a tentative inhale, deeper than necessary, to test the bandage, and nodded to himself.

It hurt, but it was manageable, and the bandaging was tight enough without constricting his breathing too much. The next few days, though, were going to be hell – he knew this from experience.

He moved to get up, but Finch stopped him with a hand. "Will you sit still?" he exclaimed in exasperation. "Let me look at your head."

"My head's fine, Finch," Reese replied. "Just a scratch."

"A _bleeding_ scratch, Mr. Reese," Harold's retort was prompt as he swatted the ex-op's probing hand away from the shallow cut on his forehead, "which needs cleaning and proper bandaging." He fished the disinfectant and some cotton balls from the first aid kit and asked, "Any nausea? Headache?"

"I'm _not_ concussed," Reese threw a glare in Harold's direction, which had little to no effect, since the other man completely ignored him, already busy dabbing the cut with the disinfectant. Reese capitulated, giving in to the older man's treatment.

As soon as Finch had applied the last steri-strip, he got up, careful to keep his movements slow and smooth, and had to bite back a wince at the stab of pain the change in position entailed. He probably didn't do a great job at hiding it, though, because before he could utter a word Finch was already offering him a couple of pills, a mixture of worry and exasperation on his face.

Reese accepted the pain meds with a nod and dry-swallowed them, ignoring the glass of water on the table and earning himself another scowling look from the older man.

"So," he began, getting back to business, "Santa Claus."

"Jacob Stein," Harold corrected him, rearranging the supplies in the first aid kit and cleaning up the coffee table. "And I still think you should let Detective Fusco take care of this."

"Well, Finch, as long as I don't have to help Santa down a chimney, there shouldn't be any problems," Reese deadpanned. "Did you find out anything else about him?"

"And when exactly would I have found the time for further research?" Harold sputtered indignantly. "I was rather busy with you getting hit by a car!"

"I'll take that as a no."

"Of course not," Finch countered, but it was less vehement than a moment before. He sighed, and rubbed a hand over his face. "For now, I found nothing that stood out particularly. No ideas on whether he's a victim or a perpetrator, either. He doesn't even have a cell phone to hack into."

"Good old surveillance, then," Reese said resignedly. Well, _that_ at least he could do without to many problems even in his current conditions, he mused.

"Probably," Harold agreed, "but we're not going to talk about this tonight." He threw the younger man a keen look and slowly gestured with his hands, pointing at the luxurious room they were in. "This is a rather nice house, Mr. Reese, with many a bedroom. You might as well take advantage."

It sounded more like an actual request than a suggestion. Reese returned the stare evenly, but it was clear that Finch had no intention to yield.

"Fine," he relented. It wasn't a bad idea after all. He was exhausted and in pain, a state that could only add to his current crankiness. He figured he could use a little rest.

 **To be continued...  
As always, constructive criticism is very appreciated!**


	3. Chapter 3

**_Author's Note._ Hi everybody, here's part 3. I really wanted to post it before New Year's Eve celebrations, so here it is! I hope you enjoy it.**  
 **Thanks to _DancingInTheDark85_ , who betaed it for me and is always there to give me precious suggestions.**

 **Also, thanks to _Keller12917_. Her continuous support is very valuable.**

 **Don't forget to leave me your thoughts!  
Happy 2018 to everybody: may the new year bring joy, hope and inspiration to you all.**

* * *

 **Chapter Three**

"Mr. Stein is currently working in a shopping mall," Finch was explaining, "as Santa, obviously."

"Obviously," Reese echoed him, observing the picture that had been pinned to a cork board on the wood- paneled wall of the living room.

"As I told you yesterday, he has no family left. He had a younger brother, who died almost twenty years ago," Finch went on. "Stein never married, and, as far as I can tell, hasn't seen his brother's ex-wife in years."

Upon waking up the following morning, after a painful and quite restless night, he had found Finch already down to business, laptop at ready, pictures and information already printed and pinned, coffee and donuts waiting for him on the table, everything settled and organized in a way that was every bit as good as their usual setting in the Library.

"And what does he do when Christmas is over?" John asked, sitting down rather stiffly on the couch and immediately reaching for the donuts box, suddenly realizing how hungry he was. He pried the box open and scanned the content - half a dozen pastries, with Christmas- themed decorations. He extracted one with a green and brown Christmas tree shaped frosting and threw an amused glance at Finch, who only shrugged in response. "Nobody needs a Santa in mid May," John said, taking a huge bite.

"Well, he's a rather busy man all year long," Harold replied. "Mostly charity work with kids and teens, twice a week in a homeless shelter, then he helps out at the food bank every Monday…"

Reese let out a soft whistle. "Quite busy, indeed," he said, impressed. "And what about money?"

"Judging by his bank account, it seems like he's living off the royalties of the most famous movies and TV shows he played in."

"Ok. So, our Santa Claus volunteers a lot. What else?" John asked, shifting minutely in his seat, unsuccessfully trying to find a more comfortable position.

"Not much, in truth," Harold said with a small frown. "Unless you're interested in parking tickets. Well, actually there was something," he slowly added, flipping through the papers next to the laptop, "here it is. He was charged with disorderly conduct and resisting arrest but it dates back to 1982. Besides, charges were dropped after a few weeks."

"Nothing else, after that?"

"Nothing," Finch replied with a minute shake of the head. He turned toward Reese, a considering look on his face. "Well, I know we should never judge a book by its cover, but if I had to hazard a guess, I'd say Mr. Stein doesn't strike me as a violent type, 1982 incident excluded."

"You don't think he's a perp," John asserted, and took a sip of the lukewarm coffee then began the assault on his second doughnut – this time, with white frosting depicting a chubby snowman.

"Not really. But I haven't even found any clue about his potential involvement in a crime as a victim either, which kind of leaves us back to square one."

Reese put the paper cup back on the mahogany table and considered his next steps. Stein didn't have any virtual account to hack into – no emails to read, no social networks to peruse, no browser search history to check. He didn't even own a cellphone they could clone. This meant he would need to resort to more direct, old-style methods to spy on the number.

"Well, I'll better get started," he stated, his mind still focused on the matter at hand.

"This might come in handy for long distance surveillance," Finch said as if on cue, offering him a small, round object, which, to closer inspection, revealed to be a bug.

"Very _James_ _Bond_ ," John commented with a dry smile, accepting the proffered microphone, and slowly got up. He grabbed his coat from the rack and maneuvered his arms inside the sleeves, careful not to jostle his upper body – a feat that was apparently unattainable. He could feel Finch's keen eyes on him, but refused to acknowledge the unspoken question. He grabbed his gun and phone from the mantelpiece, noticing quite a few dents on the latter – it had been in his pocket during the chase the day before and he had probably landed on it. A little worse for wear but serviceable. Just like him.

"See you later, Finch."

"Mr. Reese," Harold's voice stopped him as he was reaching for the front door. He turned and the donuts box was shoved in his hands. " _Eat_."

A few hours later, all unfortunately spent in unexciting surveillance, and they hadn't gotten any closer to finding out what Stein's problem might be.

John had "accidentally"bumped into the number earlier that morning, as he was having breakfast in the café in front of his workplace, and slid the bug in his Santa coat pocket. Then, Stein had started his daily shift as Santa at the mall and had been doing that all morning long.

By now, Reese was fairly sure that listening to an endless sequence of kids listing off their Christmas wishes could be catalogued as a cruel, inhuman and degrading punishment, and rightly so.

"… _the Super Fast Fury Fire Blaster, the pirate ship, the Mets jersey and Super Mario Running Wild. Oh, and don't forget the Slimy Monster, you know, the one with the lights on the head and Fergus the Flying Frog. And the radio-controlled car. Red. And a dog_ and…"

"Finch." Reese activated the earbud, trying to tune out the kid's never-ending wish list.

" _Hmm_."

"Are you hearing this?"

" _Unfortunately, yes._ "

"I swear, if I hear another kid asking for the Frying Frog…"

" _Flying Frog."_

A pause.

"Fucking Frog," Reese mumbled under his breath.

A sigh from the other and of the line.

" _You have a point, Mr. Reese?_ "

"This is getting us nowhere."

" _What do you suggest, then_?"

"Making contact. Let's just ask him what he's up to."

Finch didn't immediately answer, but whether it was because he was completely averse at the idea or, on the contrary, because he was actually considering it, Reese could not say. When he was beginning to think he would not receive an answer, Harold finally spoke.

" _You'll have to wait till the end of his shift, though_. _Unless you plan on getting in line for a picture with Santa and give him your Christmas list._ "

The ringing of his phone prevented John from replying, but maybe it was for the best. He tapped again on the earbud, hanging up on Finch and he picked up the phone. It was Carter.

"Joss," he said as a greeting.

" _John_." The sound of her voice in his hear was enough to make the morning a little less frustrating and he felt a slight smile tugging at the corners of his lips. " _How are you? Fusco told me you were in an accident._ "

"I'm fine," he said. "Can't say the same about the hood of the car, though."

" _Oh, John. You have to be careful_ ," she replied in what sounded like a scolding tone, which made his amused smile bigger. " _You're not indestructible, you know?_ "

"How's your holiday going?"

She sighed at his obvious attempt at misdirection, but answered anyway. " _California is awesome, it's so sunny… A shame that we're gonna have to come back in a few days. But, then again, I guess someone has to keep an eye on you guys. Speaking of which, what are you doing?_ " she asked.

"Right now? I'm helping Santa Claus," Reese deadpanned, extracting a donut from the box Finch had given him and taking a bite. It was freezing cold, having been in the car all morning long, and he grimaced at the unappealing texture of the congealed filling.

" _You what? No, I don't even want to know_ ," she backtracked, laughter evident in her voice.

"Probably not," he agreed. "But I'll have you know I'm becoming an expert on toys and dolls and whatever."

She laughed again, then, after a brief hesitation she asked, " _But seriously, are you OK_?"

"Perfectly fine," he repeated. Had Finch been listening in, John was sure that by now the older man would be rolling his eyes. But, then again, maybe he _was_ listening in and rolling his eyes.

" _Gotta go. I promised Taylor I would take him to the skate park_. _He's all hyped up 'cause it's the biggest of the West Coast or something._ "

"I bet he is," he commented. "Have fun!"

" _Unlikely_ ," she chuckled. "He _'ll have fun for sure, but_ me _…not so much! I'll spend the day worrying about him breaking his neck."_ Then, she added _, "See, I'm already worried enough without you jumping in front of cars- or bullets. So, please, be careful._ "

He smiled, again. "Always."

As soon as she hung up, he called Finch back.

"News?" he asked.

" _It depends_ ," Harold's voice immediately came through. " _Did you know there are a hundred and thirty-two possible combinations of Polly the Dolly based on clothes sets and hair color? Little Jenny apparently wants them all for Christmas._ "

Reese blinked. Finch was having way much too fun at his expenses. "Let me rephrase it. _Relevant_ news?"

" _Then, no._ "

"Good. Then, I'm gonna grab a coffee while we wait for Santa to stop playing Santa."

It took another five hours – in addition to a few breaks, during which Stein never left the mall, thus preventing John from approaching him – before his shift ended, and Reese was by now fighting hard to reign in his impatience, fueled, in part, by the annoying, unrelenting pain in his side.

Sitting in the freezing car was torturous, so he had tried walking the aisles of the mall, blending in the crowd of people combing through shops in search of last-minute Christmas gifts, but he had ended up spending the whole time dodging frenzied kids and adults laden with shopping bags. After receiving a particularly painful jab to the side he had deemed it safer to opt for a hasty retreat, and so there he was outside again. Albeit John had no doubt that Finch had noticed his restlessness, the older man had refrained from commenting, and for that the ex-op was grateful.

And while he would never admit it out loud, it had been quite a relief to finally see Stein, normally clothed at last, threading his way through the stream of tardy costumers and finally outside the plaza.

Walking was uncomfortable, too, each step sending a stab of pain in his midsection, but it wasn't really worse than sitting down, and at least he got to stretch the stiffness out of his sore muscles.

Reese moved closer and followed Stein as he started to walk home, keeping an eye on him. The older man was visibly nervous and kept throwing frantic looks around, as if checking for a tail, but failing to spot Reese in the throng scurrying in the sidewalk. John quietly reported his strange behavior to Harold.

" _You still planning on a direct approach?_ " the billionaire asked.

"Mmmh, not immediately," Reese hedged. "I'm sure that whatever – or whoever - it is that has Santa so spooked must be the same thing that alerted the Machine to begin with." Stein had left the main road and the crowd of people had considerably thinned, so John slowed his pace to maintain a suitable distance and avoid being spotted. "If we shed some light on that, half the job is done."

Stopping at a red light, he gave a discreet look around. Nobody else had been following the number and, if he remembered correctly, they had almost reached Stein's house. If someone was actually going to make a move, it had to be soon.

And indeed half a block ahead Reese saw Stein turn into an alley, probably heading for the entryway of his apartment, disappearing from his sight. It gave him a bad feeling and he quickened his pace. As he was reaching the corner of the alley, he heard a shout and a commotion coming from where Stein had disappeared and broke into a jog.

As soon as he turned the corner he saw a heavy-built, tattooed man with a shaved-head pinning Stein to the brick wall. Reese slammed into the attacker, forcing him to release the old actor, the momentum sending them both crashing against a nearby dumpster. The thug roared in anger at John's unexpected intrusion and he lunged at him. A confused struggle followed, with both men trying to get the upper hand. It was obvious that Stein's attacker didn't have John's combat training, but what he lacked in skills and experience he made up for in brute force. Besides, unlike Reese, he wasn't hindered by a previous, painful injury and, although the ex-op was fairly sure he could've normally won the fight without breaking a sweat, today it was proving to be quite a challenge.

A vicious hit to the chest made his vision go black for a moment and he couldn't stop a groan at the sudden pain. He mentally cursed for the fortuitous hit had accidentally revealed his weakness to his attacker, who was now trying to back him against the wall aiming punch after punch to his battered chest.

" _Mr_. _Reese_? _What's going on_?"

John ignored Finch's worried request for an update, choosing to concentrate on forcing some air back in his lungs and finding a way to end the fight quickly, preferably to his advantage.

He elbowed the thug hard in the face, feeling a satisfying crunch, and the other man momentarily ceased his assault as his hands instinctively flew to his now bleeding nose.

Unfortunately, the respite was only short- lived. Enraged for his evidently broken nose, he barreled back on Reese and they both went crashing down against a row of metal trashcans.

" _Mr. Reese?!"_

The ex-op felt he was tiring quickly, too quickly, the persistent pain in his ribs making it hard to think and slowing down his response time. Determined to put an end to the fight, he aimed again at the man's face and slammed his right fist on his nose. He felt something cold and hard under his left arm, its hard edge biting into his skin – it was the lid of one of the trashcans they had landed onto. He grabbed it and swung out with all his might at the thug's shaved head. It connected with a loud, clanking sound.

The man staggered back, fighting to stay conscious. Blood was spurting from his broken nose and dark bruises were already spreading under both his eyes, but, as wobbly and unsteady as he was, he refused to let go, his right hand still gripping hard John's collar. Another hit to the head with the metal lid and he finally went down, crumpling to the snow-covered pavement.

The sudden silence that followed was deafening. Reese, still partially on the ground, rested his head back on the wall, trying to calm down his breathing.

" _Mr. Reese… what in heavens name was_ that _sound?"_

"I knocked down a trashcan. Sort of," he succinctly replied through his heavy panting, wrestling himself in a more vertical position. He was about to stand up – or at least attempt to – when he found himself staring at the barrel of a gun, held by no one else but Stein.

 _Seriously?_

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. It couldn't have been more obvious that the old actor was terrified, the hand clutching the gun shaking uncontrollably. What was a little less clear was why on Earth Stein had refrained from pulling the gun on his attacker only to use it a moment later to threaten his savior.

"Mr. Stein, I'm trying to help you," he began, slowly spreading his hands out to show he was unarmed. He wasn't, obviously, his own gun safely hidden in his waistband, but that was a piece of information that the number was better off without.

"How do you know me? Did they send you too?" Stein's voice was trembling, but he refused to back off. "Tell them I won't do that!"

"Listen, whatever it is they want from you, I can help you," John repeated. He reached out with a hand very deliberately and pushed the gun away until it wasn't pointing at his head anymore. "But trust me, resorting to weapons it's not the solution."

" _This is rich, coming from you_ ," he heard Finch scoff in his earbud but ignored him.

Stein stared at him wide-eyed for a moment, then lowered the gun.

"Who are you?"

Reese got up, careful to keep his movements slow and steady, partly to avoid scaring the other man off with sudden movements and partly because, given how he was feeling right now, he seriously suspected that any slightly less cautious movement could have sent him crashing back to the ground, and threw the number a tight-lipped smile. It probably came out more like a grimace, though. His side was killing him with every breath he took and he could feel each and every hit his battered ribs had taken. The fight had been thankfully brief but intense and he was sure it had added quite an array of bruises to the already long list.

But there was no time to dwell on that, so he pushed back the discomfort in the back of his mind and fished a couple of zip ties from his coat pockets.

"Is there anything you need from your home?" he asked, throwing a quick glance at Stein before crouching down next to the unconscious assailant.

"Need? What – what do you mean?"

"Whoever these guys are, they know where you live," John explained as he bounded the attacker's wrists and secured them to the nearby fence. Then, he struggled upwards, his hand firmly planted on the wall for support. "As I already told you, I'm here to help," he added, locking gaze with the frightened man. "I'm going to bring you somewhere safer, but you'll have to tell me the whole story."

 **To be continued...**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Thankfully Stein had been very quick in packing the few things he might need. Despite his evident shock, the old actor had bitten the bullet and followed John's instructions without making a fuss. The big, comfortable looking sofa in his den had been a very appealing sight for the ex-op but he had resisted the temptation to sit down, guessing that, if he did, he might not be able to get up any time soon.

The walk back to John's car had seemed endless. Snowflakes were swirling through the air, though not heavily like the previous day, and finally sitting on the cushioned seats of the car and out the chilling air had felt like heaven. A few minutes into their trip to the safe house, Reese had sensed that the other man had been about to explain his current situation, but the ex-op had stopped him, deeming it better to postpone the conversation until they reunited with Finch.

And so there they were, all sitting around the huge mahogany table in the living room. Judging by the alarmed look that had flashed on Harold's face as soon as he had laid eyes on him, he guessed he probably looked as bad as he was actually feeling.

"So," he began, throwing a piercing look to the old actor, sitting directly across him, "I guess it's safe to assume that what happened in the alley wasn't just a random mugging, right?"

"Yes," Stein quietly said with a sigh. "I don't exactly know who he is, I – I mean, not his name…but I know what he wants."

Finch nodded minutely, encouraging him to go on. If the number had been surprised or frightened to find someone else waiting for them in the safe house, he hadn't said. In truth, considering he had just been assaulted, rescued by a mysterious man and subsequently whisked away from his house towards an unspecified safer location, he was actually taking it all pretty in stride.

"These people…they want me to help them rob the mall."

The declaration was met with a perplexed silence.

"But who? Who are these people?" Finch finally asked with a frown.

"I don't exactly know them – they're some sort of gang or something, I guess," Stein shrugged. "I really do not know. They approached me a couple of weeks ago, said that I was supposed to be their… _way in_ , since I've worked into that mall for years and I'm so well known and everything. They said that nobody would suspect me of any wrongdoing."

"Yes, but why _you_?" Reese cut in. The story didn't make any sense, and he was sure that the actor was hiding something from them. Yet he could feel that he was not outright lying to them. "How would they even know all of this?"

Stein stopped again and looked away. Whatever it was that he had kept out of his explanation, it was now time for him to spill.

"It's my nephew, Steve. He's- he's one of them."

Reese blinked. He hadn't known what to expect, but surely not this. He threw a quick glance at Finch, frowning – just a few hours before the billionaire had said that Stein had no living relatives and while it was possible that he had simply missed something, Reese doubted it. Harold's input was always detailed and spot-on, to the point that the ex-op was fairly sure they often had much more information about the numbers than any official channel could ever hope to rack up. Finch's only response was an equally blank stare.

Probably sensing his benefactors' puzzlement, or maybe just for sake of accuracy, Stein hurried to clarify his statement.

"Well, he's not really my nephew, since my brother didn't have any children," he amended, "but when he married Juliet she already had a kid - Steve."

He sighed again, and this time it held some melancholy.

"My brother wasn't Steve's father, but he raised him as if he had been. He loved him like a son. And he's a good kid, you know? Got mixed up with the wrong people, owes 'em some money but he ain't a bad kid."

Reese's eyebrows shot up at the last part of the statement, but he chose not to comment. Instead, he tried to bring the conversation back on track.

"So they asked you to do what, exactly?"

"I have the keys of one of the service entrances and I pretty much can come and go as I please. They want to get in from the locker room tomorrow evening, after the plaza closes for the day and then rob the stores." he trailed off, but the rest was pretty obvious.

"That's quite _cliché_ , robbing a mall on Christmas Eve," Finch observed. "But their plan sounds rather lacking to me."

"It's not just lacking, Finch, it's _awful_ ," John commented, shaking his head in wonder at its sheer absurdity. "It's plain stupid. How can they think even for a moment that it might work? There'll be some private security, at least. And even if they manage to get in unnoticed, and I doubt that, they'll trigger some alarm in no time. There's only one way this thing can end – badly."

"I tried telling Steve, but they wouldn't listen! They threatened me. They know where I live, where and when I volunteer during the week, everything. They said they'll know where to find me if I say no."

"Well," Reese slowly replied, "we'll stop them, and make sure they get a nice surprise."

"What do you have in mind, Mr. Reese?" Finch asked. In the last few minutes he had been apparently engrossed in some research and he didn't look up from the monitor. John figured he was pulling information on Stein's nephew.

"We can't let them get away with it, can we? We'll have them arrested for something."

What that _something_ could be, he still did not know for sure, but it wouldn't be the first time they'd have to get creative over a perp's arrest.

"But Steve…" Stein objected. "He's a good kid, really. I'm not saying this because he's my nephew. He's not like those people, he's helping them because he owes them money! He's just…" he trailed off, hiding his face in his hands. "He's made some mistakes."

"Steve will have the chance to help us stop the robbery and get his so-called _friends_ arrested," Reese cut him off. "Let's hope he's clever enough to take it."

It was obvious that Stein was genuinely worried for the young man, but this was all they could promise him. They would offer him an option, a legit way out. Whether to accept it or not, it was on him.

Reese tiredly rubbed a hand over his eyes, trying to fight off the first signs of an impending headache and rested his head in his hands. A migraine was the last thing he needed right now - he needed to think, to form a fool-proof plan in order to get the gang arrested. And, on top of that, there were still the previous day's loose ends to tie up.

Patterson, indeed, was not out of the woods yet. Reese guessed he must still be in the hospital, being treated for his wounded knee, and was about to get prosecuted for brandishing and shooting a weapon, and carrying without a permit. But this wasn't enough. He was sure that the broker was still in trouble with the money-lenders who had tried to use him as a drug mule. Not only did he owe them a huge sum of money, now he had also apparently lost a briefcase full of drugs! If anything, his situation had got worse.

But maybe there was a way to fix both matters in one fell swoop, he thought, an idea slowly beginning to take form in his brain.

Sensing Harold's eyes on him he moved his hands away - and indeed, again there it was that concerned, piercing stare. He threw a tight-lipped smile to the older man, which evidently did nothing to appease his friend's concern.

"Harold, what happened to Patterson's briefcase?"

Finch frowned, evidently perplexed by Reese's apparent _non-sequitur_ , but answered anyway.

"Detective Fusco has it," he said. "We thought it best for Patterson not to be found with a case full of meth, so it hasn't been impounded yet."

"That's good," John replied slowly. "I have an idea on how to put it to good use." He shifted in his seat, ready to get up, and couldn't hide a wince when the movement brought a sharp pain in his midsection.

"Well, Mr. Reese, we'll discuss the details later," Finch hurried to say, and he put a restraining hand of John's shoulder, effectively preventing him from getting up. "Now, what about some dinner?" he asked, directing the question to both John and the old Santa. "There's a Chinese take away a block ahead – rather good, I might add."

Eating definitely sounded like a good idea – as his stomach tried to remind him, cold donuts and too much coffee hardly constituted a suitable choice for nourishment. Something hot and without sugar would be a nice change.

"Good plan, Harold," he agreed and again started to get up but Finch immediately stopped him.

" _I'_ m going, Mr. Reese. You stay here."

And so, just a few minutes later, Reese found again himself alone with the actor. This case was proving to be quite weird, Reese mused, almost out of a Christmas movie. A Santa Claus in need, a long-lost nephew, a Christmas Eve robbery. Well, maybe out of a weird combination of movies, he amended. But still…

Stein himself was quite a curious character, both for his career choice and current lifestyle but he seemed like a decent person. Reese had no doubts that the actor was really sure of his nephew's innocence – or, to be exact, of his unwilling involvement in the heist. He just hoped that they weren't making a mistake in giving the kid a chance.

"So, do you live here?" the actor asked, rousing him from his musings.

Reese frowned suspiciously at the sudden inquiry, but a quick look at the other man's face was enough to reassure him that he was just trying to make conversation, and not fish for information. In any case, better always be careful.

"It depends," he replied vaguely. "Not really."

"This place is nice, but a bit lacking in Christmas decorations," Stein commented, evidently unoffended by the obvious ambiguity in the ex-op's answer, and looked around with a melancholic smile. In effects, from what little Reese had seen of his apartment earlier that afternoon, the actor _did_ love decorations. He had only got a glimpse of the place and there had been quite a lot of them, including a huge, bright, overly loaded Christmas tree.

"Well, Mr. Stein, to be honest I'm not much in the Christmas spirit," Reese said.

"That's quite sad," the actor observed. "But, anyway, no more with this _Mr. Stein_. You can call me Nick."

John frowned. "I thought your name was Jacob."

"Oh yeah, but, you know. Santa Claus, Saint Nicholas. Nick," the older man explained with a laugh.

To this, Reese could not reply. Maybe this guy was not so sane after all.

Correctly interpreting his silence, Stein went on.

"Don't worry, I'm not delusional. But you know what they say, we are what we do, isn't it true?"

Was it? Again, Reese did not know what to say. In truth, he really hoped not. If it was someone's job or choices to define their identity, what did his past told about John's character? For God's sake, he shot people as a job. This probably say a tale he didn't really want to hear.

Thankfully, he was spared the trouble of giving an answer by Finch's timely arrival, but that disquieting thought was hard to ward off.

Over dinner, he forced his mind to focus on the planning part instead, struggling to sort out all the details and finally proceeded to lay out his idea to his companions.

It was quite simple, actually. With Steve's cooperation he would plant incriminating evidence – Patterson's drugs and maybe a few well-chosen pieces from his weapons collections, heavy enough to raise some alarm in the arresting officers – in the other gang members' cars. Not only would this get them arrested, it hopefully might also help Patterson's case. If the money lenders got word that the gang had assaulted him and stolen the drugs, they might turn their wrath on the gang instead of the broker himself.

Of course, it was not devoid of flaws. For one thing, even if everything went according to plan, the money-lenders that had got Patterson in trouble would get away scot-free, and there was the chance of provoking some sort of feud between the gangs involved, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't come up with a better plan. The tiredness, the biting, unrelenting pain in his chest and now the blossoming headache were making it hard to focus.

The feeling of restlessness, bordering on frustration, was creeping back on him. Against common sense, he got up from the table and began pacing, his mind reeling with thoughts, an arm surreptitiously pressed on his side, and he almost didn't even realize that Finch was back in the room after walking Stein to one of the several bedrooms of the apartment. He could feel Harold's eyes boring into him.

"John. Sit down."

Not surreptitious enough, evidently. He kept pacing.

 _"John._ "

Again, he ignored the suggestion, but stopped his pacing at the window, staring unseeing at the snow-covered street below – a compromise of sorts.

"It's a good plan," the older man observed after a minute. His tone was casual, conversational almost, but John wasn't fooled. He wondered how it was possible that Harold always seemed to know exactly what he was thinking.

"Not good enough, maybe," Reese carefully replied. To him, a good plan meant that all the parties involved got what they deserved. This time, this wasn't going to happen.

" _It is_ enough," Finch insisted, quiet but firm. "You can't take care of the whole city in a night, John."

To this, John had no answer.

A sigh, some rustling, a few uneven steps, then the older man appeared beside him, a few pills and a glass of water in the proffered hand. "Here, take these."

Reese shook his head, continuing to stare ahead to the heavily falling snow and blinking Christmas lights. "They make me sleepy." _And addled_ , he mentally added, _and they make it impossible to think clearly. And that's already hard enough tonight._

"Then _sleep_ ," Finch exclaimed in exasperation. "There's nothing else you can do for tonight."

Reese hesitated another moment, then caved in, finally accepting the glass and the pills and washing them down with a gulp of water, then gingerly lowered himself on the leather couch.

Finch clearly disapproved of his choice of accommodation if the shake of the head and the accompanying frown were of any indication, but chose to let it go as he settled on the table with his ever-present laptop, and soon the only noise that could be heard in the room was his soft typing.

What he was up to, Reese had no idea, and he lazily pondered whether he should ask, finally deciding against it. He sank deeper into the cushions, adjusting his position. The pain meds – probably some prescription-only drug straight out of Finch's very own collection – were beginning to kick in. The pain in his ribs was definitely less sharp than before and a not totally unpleasant drowsiness was falling upon him. He closed his eyes, letting the incessant, soft noise of Finch's keyboard lull him into sleep.

When he woke again, there was a blanket loosely draped over him and some time must have passed, since the dusk outside had given way to dark and the room was faintly lit by the bluish glow of Harold's laptop.

Whatever it was that Finch was doing, it had him completely absorbed – he was apparently looking again and again at some sort of clip, in a continuous loop on the monitor. Reese squinted, and a more attentive look revealed it to be a webcam feed showing a someone getting hit by a car – a hit and run. He blamed it on his current lethargy that it took him a couple of rewatches before it dawned on him it was his hit and run.

A few strokes of the keyboard and the image on the monitor grew larger, zooming in on the car. A couple of clicks on the mouse and the enlarged portion was sharpened. More strokes and clicks followed, Finch leaning in towards the monitor, deeply engrossed in scrutiny. Reese felt he should say something to Finch – to let it go and not bother, that there was no need, that he was fine – but summoning the energy to speak felt like a titanic challenge. His eyes soon closed again against his own volition.

 **To be continued...**

 **As always, a huge thank you to DancingInTheDark85. I don't know what I'd do without you!**


	5. Chapter 5

**_Author's Note_ : Here's the last part. Longer chapter today, to make up for the longer wait.**

 **I hope you'll enjoy it - I surely had a lot of fun writing this story!**  
 **As always, a huge thank you to _DancingInTheDark85_. **

**Happy reading...and don't forget to let me know your thoughts!**

* * *

 **Chapter 5**

On Harold's insistence, Reese had relocated to one of the bedrooms of the apartment sometimes during the previous night, but once the meds had started wearing off his sleep had been fitful at best, and he was feeling far from well-rested the next morning. The headache was gone, at least, and that in itself was a small cause for celebration considering the activities he had in store for the day.

To his initial surprise, Finch had asked him to wait before getting to it, but he had soon got the reason for the unusual request. The older man wanted Fusco to go with him.

"The hell he'll come with me," Reese growled. "I don't need a babysitter."

"And he's not one," Finch, totally unperturbed by the ex-op's vehemence, held his ground. "But it wouldn't be the first time you require his, mmh, _assistance_."

" _Finch_."

"John."

Harold's calm tone evenly met the ex-op's belligerent one.

"Besides, weren't you planning on having someone arrested?" the billionaire reasoned. "This way, if need be, Detective Fusco might take care of the whole arresting part."

Before Reese could utter a word, they were interrupted by a loud banging at the front door. It was Fusco, who let himself in without waiting for an answer. He had Bear's leash in one hand, a coffee and Patterson's briefcase in the other, and seemed to be struggling to keep up with the Malinois who, having evidently smelled his alpha, couldn't seem to contain his excitement.

"I can't believe how much this _thing_ eats," Lionel grumbled in greeting, giving up the tug-o-war battle with the dog and dropping the leash altogether. "Do ya ever even feed him? You owe me lunch at least since he ate my fucking breakfast. And half my sandwich last night."

"Look at the bright side Lionel," Reese commented, as he carefully crouched down to pet the dog, "keep up like this and you'll be back in shape in no time."

The jab didn't hold the usual sneer that Reese reserved for Fusco, though, the slightly breathless quality of his voice kind of ruining the final effect. Also, the fact that he needed the wall as a support as he eased himself back up to a standing position didn't help much either.

"You're not looking too much _in shape_ yourself, Wonderboy," the stout Detective retorted with an annoyed frown. "You look like someone who's been run over by a truck."

"Gentlemen," Harold jumped up, interrupting their taunting. "Please, we have some work to do."

" _We_?" Lionel's objection was immediate and outraged. "What's that mean?!"

"It means that there's a matter which requires your, ah, _undivided attention_ today, Detective."

"I have a day job, and sure as hell can't spend the day runnin' around at your beck and call," Fusco sputtered. "I have a murder investigation goin' and –"

"Oh, yes, the murder of that young lady. Mrs. Benson, if I'm not wrong," Finch cut him off, his tone placid.

Lionel stared at him, taken by surprise. "Yeah, it's…yes, that one," he stammered, then recovered quickly. "What do you know about that? You involved or something?"

"Of course not, Detective," Harold shook his head to dismiss the idea. "But I happen to know you're a bit stuck with the investigation, so to speak. And I might have found something useful, concerning your prime suspect. A Mr. Carson, right?"

"You might…? What? What did ya find?" Fusco's indignation went up a notch, and Reese hid a smile. He wasn't very partial to the idea of bringing the cop with him, but watching Finch rattle his cage was quite funny, and it might even be worth the price of the forced partnership with the Detective.

"Oh, I'd need to do further research before handing you any kind of proof," Harold shrugged. "Now, I would never want to risk giving you wrong intel." He looked up to meet Lionel's gaze. "But, of course, if you volunteered your cooperation today, I might spare a few minutes of my time to find some evidence for your investigation while you're on the field."

"What the…You're…you're blackmailin' me! That's what ya doin'."

"Be nice, Fusco," Reese drawled. "Finch has just offered to help you."

Fusco stood speechless for a moment, affronted, staring back and forth between Reese and Finch, then raised his hands in surrender, accepting his fate albeit with bad grace.

"Alright, alright, I'll do it," he grumbled, slamming his empty coffee cup on the table. He kept muttering to himself as he headed towards the door. "But this really has to stop."

Reese threw a piercing glance at Finch, halfway between amused and annoyed. It hadn't been lost on him that Fusco wasn't the only one who had just been maneuvered to fit into Harold's plans.

"You can be quite convincing when you want to, Finch," he observed mildly, opening the briefcase and giving its contents a perfunctory look. Cocaine.

Finch stared back, eyebrows raised. The picture of innocence.

"You think?"

Any chance of reply was cut off by Fusco, who popped his head back inside, impatience clearly written on his features.

"Wonderboy, you coming or what?"

* * *

The first stop was Stein's nephew's apartment. Fusco had spent the whole trip muttering under his breath, but Reese had been content to let him. Considering their relationship had started out with Fusco repeatedly trying to kill him and John dumping bodies and other various problems on the Detective, it wasn't turning out that bad. Despite all his grumbling, Reese had an inkling of suspicion that the Detective didn't quite dislike his involvement in his and Finch's activities. Maybe he even enjoyed it.

"…you frickin' errand boy, that's how you treat me…"

Well, almost enjoyed.

His muttering finally came to an end when they reached the seedy neighborhood where Steve lived.

"So, what's the plan? What do you need this guy for?" Lionel asked as they got out of the car. He threw John a suspicious glare. "You're not gonna shoot his knee or something, right?"

"Relax, Lionel. I just want to ask him a couple of questions. I won't shoot him, scout's honor." He cocked his head to the side, a wry smile on his lips. "Unless he's the uncooperative type, of course."

Luckily, it turned out that Stein's nephew was not the uncooperative type, not at all. A quick flash of Fusco's and Stills' badges and a couple of not-so-veiled threats had been enough to convince him that keeping information to himself could prove dangerous, and he'd hurried to answer any possible question thrown his way.

In a few minutes they had extorted the names of all of his fellow comrades – names that Reese had immediately relayed to Finch.

"Listen, I'm real sorry for uncle Nick. But the boss, Hansen, loaned me a grand last month and now wanted it back 'cause he kept sayin' he had this big project goin' and needed the money…he was threatening me…"

"What project?" Reese asked.

"I dunno, he wouldn't tell," Steve said, then recoiled at the ex-op's disbelieving and quite intimidating stare. "I swear, I don't know! But he said he just needed some time and then he was gonna make big money with it."

It also turned out that there were several adjectives that could be used to describe Steve – but _brave_ was definitely not one of them.

"What will happen to me now?" he was whimpering now. "What if they find out I ratted them out? You're not gonna arrest me, right?"

"It's up to you," Reese murmured menacingly. "If you help us, you're free to go wherever you want. Far away, if you want my suggestion. The question is, will you?"

At the young man's vigorous nodding, he went on. "All you have to do is arrange a meeting with them. Tell them you have everything that's necessary for the robbery and we'll do the rest."

He took a step towards Steve, towering over him, and lowered his voice of a notch so that he was almost whispering. "You won't try anything stupid, like warning them about this little chat, will you?"

This time, a vigorous shake of the head.

"Good," John smiled, "because we'll know if you did, and I'd hate to have to hunt you down to teach you how to keep your mouth shut."

"You paired his phone, Lionel?" Reese asked as they were climbing back into the car. He doubted that the kid would double-cross them – more likely for fear of the consequences than for guile – but better be safe than sorry.

"Yeah, I did, but he won't talk. You scared the shit outta him," Fusco replied, his tone a strange mix of exasperation and admiration.

"Finch?" John switched the speaker on. "Do you have info on those guys?"

" _Yes, Mr. Reese. They all have quite long rap sheets. The first two names you gave me, Fred and Jeremy Paulsen – brothers, mostly minor offenses. DUI, disorderly intoxication, mugging, gambling, false generalities, brawl…this kind of charges._ "

"Nice family, huh" Fusco commented.

" _Quite indeed. I'm sending you pictures and information as we speak. The other one – Randy Hansen – is quite another league, so to speak. Illegal carry, aggravated battery, drug dealing, alleged producing of methamphetamine_." Reese's phone pinged and the files appeared on screen. He scrolled through them, stopping at the last one. A vicious looking guy with several tattoos and a shaved head.

"It's the guy who assaulted Stein yesterday," he said.

" _Yes, Stein told me_ ," Harold confirmed. " _What are your plans_?"

Reese didn't immediately answer as he pondered the matter. The first two guys didn't strike him as particularly dangerous. Granted, he was going to get them arrested to stop the robbery and protect the number, and the plan he had come up with the previous evening seemed effective enough to do the trick. The third guy, though, was another matter entirely. First of all, according to what Steve had said, Hansen was the boss of the small gang, the _brains_ ofthegroup, even if it seemed a rather generous term given the lacking plan he had contrived for the robbery. And then, and this was the alarming part, he had had no qualms in assaulting an old man like Stein and his rap sheet confirmed quite a violent strike in his behavior. Somehow, planting some coke in his car hardly seemed enough.

"This Hansen…you said he's cooking meth, right?"

" _Allegedly_."

"Well, it could be that project Stein's nephew mentioned. If so, it'd make things easier for us," Reese slowly said. "Drug manufacturing _and_ dealing _and_ possession of a couple of illegal weapons should put him away for a while."

" _I guess it's worth a try_ ," Finch quietly commented.

"Weapons? Who said anything about weapons?" Fusco piped up in alarm. "You don't even know if he has any."

"Don't worry, Lionel, when we're done with his apartment, he will."

And so, less than half an hour later they were standing next to the Paulsens' car, ready to plant the coke-filled briefcase. Or, more specifically, John was busy picking the car trunk lock while Fusco grumbled in the background.

"What's taking you so damn long? I'm a cop, for Christ sake, what if anybody sees us?"

"I'd work faster if you shut your mouth, Lionel," John growled, mentally cursing against the pain the crouched position brought in his side. "I'm trying to make sure nobody realizes the lock had been picked. We don't want anyone to suspect that this stuff is planted, do we?"

"Ha! You sure as hell don't worry about that when you pick my trunk lock to dump bodies inside it," Fusco complained.

"You know what? I don't give a damn about your car," the ex-op retorted. Finally, he felt more than heard a satisfying click and the car trunk was open.

They made a quick work of stuffing the case inside it, careful to hid it in the spare wheel compartment so that it wouldn't be spotted before due time. Judging by the mess inside the car, Reese doubted they would even ever notice an unexpected luggage, but better not take unnecessary risks.

After a brief consideration, John wedged a couple of guns under the briefcase, then slammed the trunk shut and checked the lock. It looked perfectly fine, as if it had never been wrenched open.

"You gonna commit any more felonies under my nose?"

"Why, Fusco, you planning on arresting me?" Reese purred. "I thought you liked this kind of stuff – bending rules, cutting corners…thought it was your thing."

An annoyed shake of the head, further mutterings, a few rather explicit swear words were the only reply John got from the Detective, and then Fusco's car door slammed shut violently enough to make the windows rattle.

Finch sighed in his earbud.

After one last cursory look to the rigged car, Reese finally joined Fusco in the car and they sped away towards their last stop for the day.

* * *

"Holy shit," Fusco growled and Reese thought he could agree with the sentiment. They were standing in the middle of Hansen's living room – or, more precisely, what would have been the living room had it been a normal apartment.

But it definitely wasn't.

Except for a large wooden table and a worn out, faded sofa in the farthest corner from the door, none of the usual pieces of furniture were present; instead, there were cardboard boxes everywhere, and metallic shelves ran all around the perimeter of the room.

The table was packed, mostly with pieces of lab equipment, mixers, burners, trays and plastic containers, a clear sign that Hansen's charge of drug manufacturing was everything but a false accusation.

It wasn't the first time that, while working the numbers with Finch, they accidentally stumbled upon this kind of activity – not many months ago, they had found themselves in the midst of a MDMA cooking operation. The memory of Finch high as a kite was quite hard to shake.

But this laboratory showed no resemblance to any other Reese had ever wandered into.

Hansen's apartment was messy, badly lit, and looked as amateurish as it could get. Most of the equipment looked grimy and secondhand and there were used mixers scattered everywhere. There were even some ashtrays around the room, with several cigarette butts sticking out, and a foul smell permeated the air, a mixture of chemicals and lingering stale smoke. A few thick books also sat on the table and upon closer inspection Reese realized they were chemistry textbooks. _Great_.

"Whatever they're cooking they don't look very capable," Lionel commented, shaking a tray containing some uneven greyish pills. A few spilled from the container and crumbled apart as they fell onto the table.

Reese stepped back from table and pried open one the boxes stacked on the floor, peering at his contents. Then, he extracted a small bottle, and held it up for Fusco to see. It was cough syrup, and there were dozens of bottles in the container he had opened. He threw a look around, estimating the number of boxes and making a quick calculation, and whistled quietly at the result.

"Either he has a serious bronchitis problem or he's thinking to try his hand at some codeine-based junk," he wryly said, mostly to Finch's benefit, "and I wouldn't bet my money on the first theory."

" _What?_ "

"Cough medicine, Finch," he explained, tossing the bottle back in the box. "It contains codeine. You can extract it and mix out with other stuff to obtain opiates."

" _I thought you said he was producing pills,_ " Finch objected.

"Yeah, that too, even I'm not sure this can really qualify as _producing pills_ , Harold," John commented. "It's more like he's mixing random stuff." He picked up a couple of plastic containers and scanned the labels. "Doesn't look like MDMA though. Might be BZP, it's way easier to produce and requires less equipment, but I'm no expert."

"If you want my opinion, Glasses, this guy ain't the brightest bulb in the box," Lionel, who had evidently been also listening to Harold's side of the conversation through his own earbud spoke up. "He's trying a lot of different things here, but ain't having much success with any of 'em. Maybe he saw it on TV or something and thought it was easy."

"I really hope he's not selling anything, though. I wouldn't put too much faith in his, mmh, _proficiency._ "

"His smarts either," Fusco snorted. "For Christ sake, this guy apparently smokes in a place full of fucking chemicals. Dumbass."

"Well, I'd say there's enough stuff in here to get him arrested," Reese slowly commented, throwing a considering look around the room. "Maybe we could add something else for good measure."

"Yeah, well, flash news WonderBoy. I can't just barge inside random apartments or search people's cars willy-nilly. I need a warrant, or at least probable cause," Fusco protested.

"Oh well, I'm sure you'll come up with something, Lionel," Reese smiled. "By the way, you're already standing inside someone's apartment, so the whole _barging inside_ part is already settled."

"Ha! And who's fault is it anyway?" But before Lionel could get into full rant mode, he was stopped by the ringing of his phone.

"Ah, must be my kid, it's his ringtone," the Detective said, patting down the front of his coat in search of the phone, "and I'm gonna take this. Outside," he added, throwing a glance at Reese. His tone was defiant, almost rebellious, as if he was expecting an objection, but Reese just shrugged in response. He didn't have any, neither to the phone call itself nor to the place Fusco chose for the conversation, as long as it was kept reasonably short. Finally locating the source of the noise, Lionel fished the cell out of his pocket and strode purposefully towards the door.

Left alone in the room, Reese went back to perusing the contents of the boxes. By now, it was rather obvious that Hansen's makeshift laboratory was enough to cause him some trouble with the law – the sole possession of many of the chemicals present was prohibited without proper permit - but it was not clear to which extent. They couldn't risk him to get away with just a slap on the wrist. The ex-op would make sure of that.

He wasn't alarmed by the steps in the hallway or the soft noise of the opening door - he was expecting Fusco to come back at any moment.

No, it wasn't the noise.

It was his sixth sense that, in a split second, made him register that there was someone behind his back, that the smell of cigarette smoke had suddenly grown more intense, that the steps didn't sound like Fusco's.

He whipped his head back and saw Hansen entering his apartment, his face deeply bruised, nose broken and gun in hand.

Reacting on pure instinct, John jumped behind the couch and swore as the sudden movement jarred his abused ribs, just as a bullet lodged itself in the wall, right in the spot where his head had been just a couple of moments ago.

"You! What the fuck are you doing in my house?" the thug shouted, shooting another few rounds in his directions, which sent pieces of glasses flying everywhere.

Hansen was obviously quite a lousy shot, but Reese couldn't decide in that moment if that was a luck or just represented a huge risk, considering all the chemicals scattered around the room. A gunfight, in his opinion, was a terrible, terrible idea. Surrounded as they were by potentially volatile substances, the chance of a bullet hitting the wrong container and causing an explosion was not very appealing. Not for the first time that day, he mentally cursed at the other man's stupidity.

Not to mention that, wedged as he was between the sofa, the table and the metallic shelves, he wasn't in the most desirable position for a fight. For now, the furniture was providing him a heaven-sent cover from the spray of bullets, but this wasn't going to last soon.

Another bullet, another glass container shattered, some yellowish powder spilling on the floor over the other debris already scattered everywhere.

In a fluid, quick motion, Reese lunged at one of the metal trays on the table and threw it at Hansen. Maybe it took him by surprise, or maybe it had been the tray's sharp edge cutting into the other man's hand, but both the gun and cigarette went flying and the he swore loudly.

He jumped at John, still trapped between the sofa and the table, and they both slammed against the shelves, hard enough that some of the containers on the top rack fell over them, but none of them relented. His back painfully pressed against the shelves, wrestling for control against the enraged criminal, Reese would have laughed at the irony of the repeat of the previous day performance, could he have spared a breath. But a thick, acrid smoke was beginning to permeate the room, further constricting his already challenged breathing and making his eyes water. A quick glance to his right revealed the source of the pungent-smelling fumes. Flames were slowly spreading at the far end of the table, eating away at the mess of powders on the floor – the fire in all likelihood caused by the cigarette that the moron had dropped – and slowly but inexorably moving closer to them.

Coughing hard against the increasingly thicker smoke that made his throat burn, Reese pushed the man away from him with a violent shove that sent him crashing against the table and the ex-op finally stumbled away from the corner.

Half-blinded and breathless, John was fighting mostly on instinct, trading and blocking blows on autopilot while trying to avoid spilling further stuff. He was about to slam a fist into what hoped was Hansen's nose when he heard a dull thud, and the other man crumbled to the ground.

Through the smoke, the tears and the persistent, painful coughing he saw Fusco looming over the fallen man, a heavy tome in hand.

"Took you…long…enough," he managed to blurt out between coughs. Seeing Fusco tossing the thick book aside and crouching down to seize Hansen under the armpits, he bent down to help, but pain flared up in his midsection and he almost ended up on the floor.

"Go, I got it," Lionel shouted, frantically motioning with a hand to the door, "go!"

He stumbled blindly towards the door, face pressed into his sleeve to try and block some of the fumes, and finally he was out. He leant his back on the wall, gulping mouthfuls of air – it was just marginally cleaner than inside, the smoke having already seeped from the apartment, but it felt like heaven in comparison.

Fusco immediately emerged behind him, dragging Hansen out with him and then unceremoniously dropping him on the filthy floor.

"I left you a coupla minutes, and it was enough for you to raise hell," the Detective complained panting hard, disbelief coloring his tone. "A coupla fucking minutes."

"Not…my fault," Reese retorted, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor with his back on the wall. He registered but ignored Fusco's worried glance at the motion. He just needed a moment. Each rattling cough sent a stabbing pain in his midsection and it was making it hard to think, to focus. He gestured towards Hansen, "smoke and guns…in a lab…"

" _I placed an emergency call_ ," Finch cut in, " _obviously as a_ concerned neighbor _. Firefighters and ambulance should be there soon._ "

"Yeah, the guy here's still out cold," the Detective grunted and squatted down to study him, a frown on his face. He pried one of the man's eyelids open, but got no reaction. "That textbook was pretty thick."

"Better… than trashcan lids," the ex-op replied with a laugh that soon caused him to erupt in another coughing fit. The persistent, exhausting hacking only added to the intense pain in his ribs, and he pressed his right arm over the chest to try and alleviate the discomfort.

"What?" Fusco stared at Reese, perplexed. He blinked, studying the ex-op, brow furrowed, and his expression turned to slight alarm. "You're not high or something, right? You breathed some of that shit?"

"'m fine," John breathed, resting his head on the wall. The coughing had abated to a degree and he savored the respite.

"Yeah, I noticed," Fusco retorted. "That's why you're trying to spit up a lung."

" _ETA four minutes,_ " Finch's voice suddenly sounded in their ears. " _You'd better get out of there before they arrive._ "

"Yeah," Reese agreed and let the Detective help him ease up from the floor, but then shrugged the other man's hands off his shoulders. "Look at the bright side, Fusco. Firefighters will report the drug lab to the police," he said. "See? No need to issue a search warrant anymore."

"Oh yeah, I see how it all worked out great in the end." Lionel sounded quite sarcastic.

" _Well, as a matter of fact, according to the statistics, 23% of clandestine labs are discovered by emergency personnel responding to fires_ ," Harold commented, " _so in a sense it did_ work out great _in the end_." A brief pause, some background typing, then he added, " _by the way, you have less than three minutes_."

"Yeah, now you're gonna tell me you did this on purpose," Lionel grumbled, but it was half-hearted. He kept muttering complaints under his breath as he closely followed Reese all the way down the stairs and to the car. "I don't get it, how you guys always pull off stuff like this. I'm telling you, someday you won't be so lucky, and I won't get caught with ya."

But John wasn't really listening. As the sirens approached, he reached the car and lowered himself in the seat – though the motion probably looked more like a barely controlled collapse – but prevented Fusco from starting the engine until the vehicles arrived on the scene. In truth, he didn't care much for Hansen's fate, but he wanted to make sure that the man didn't escape before firefighters and E.M.T.s found him and wasn't satisfied until he saw the responders loading him on the ambulance.

Their job was done. It wasn't how Reese had planned it, but it had worked – incriminating evidence discovered, Hansen about to be reported to the authorities, drugs destroyed – and he fleetingly thought that maybe Finch was right, it was enough. He nodded to Fusco, silently giving him permission to go. The car discreetly peeled away from the curb.

He kept his eyes glued in odd detachment to the commotion reflected in the rearview mirror – the turmoil of firefighters, the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles, the small crowd of curious bystanders. It had started snowing again and the heavy whirling of flakes gave an overall sense of unreality to the scene.

They turned the corner and the scene disappeared from his sight. John closed his eyes.

* * *

 **One last part to go - the epilogue! It'll be up tomorrow.**


	6. Epilogue

**_Author's Note:_ And so we've reached the end of this story!  
A huge thank you to all my readers, followers and especially to the ones who took the time who leave a review. It's always nice to receive some feedback, it brightens my day :)  
**

 **Plans for further stories, since someone asked me _via_ PM: well, I have a story in mind, another Finch-Reese adventure, and, me being me, there'll be plenty of hurt/comfort. I got it all planned out and I've already started writing it, but I don't know when I'll start posting it, since it'll depend on my work schedule.**

 **Anyway, enough with the blabbering.**

 ** _DancingInTheDark85_ : you rock! Her friendship, encouragement and help are priceless. There's a tiny tribute to one of her lovely Bear-themed stories in the epilogue. Brownie points to anyone who catches it!**

* * *

 **Epilogue**

When John woke up, it took a moment before he recognized the unfamiliar setting. He was in a bedroom – the safe house bedroom, his brain provided – where Finch had promptly and quite firmly steered him as soon as they had got back. In truth, it hadn't been too difficult for the older man to convince him – exhausted and in pain and still slightly breathless, the idea of a few hours' sleep had been impossible to resist.

It probably was late afternoon now, at least judging by the scarce light filtering through the window, so he figured he must have slept at least a couple of hours.

He took a tentative breath. He was sore – all that coughing had definitely exacerbated his already less than supreme conditions, all the muscles in his chest aching and tired - but whatever Finch had given him before sending him to rest had done a good job. He was feeling better. Not well-rested maybe, not yet at least, but not nearly as weary as before. And almost relaxed.

He slowly untangled himself from the blanket and sat on the edge of the bed, getting his bearings. He reeked – an acrid mix of smoke and burnt plastic – and he grimaced at the smell. A shower was definitely in order. And then food, coffee. Company.

The shower took longer than necessary, the hot water so soothing that he stood under the spray long after every trace of smoke had been washed off from his skin, and twenty minutes later he was standing in the middle of the living room, staring speechless at a huge, lavishly adorned and overly bright Christmas tree, that hadn't definitely been there a few hours before. Weirdly enough, it looked somehow familiar. Massive decorations of all kinds hang from the perfectly trimmed branches, and several strings of lights were wrapped around all its length, unrelentingly blinking, creating endless colorful and vibrant patterns which reverberated through the room.

"I see you found your Christmas present," Finch's voice reached him from behind. "Santa brought it specifically for you. Do you like it?"

Some uneven steps, and Harold joined him in front of the tree.

"Santa," John repeated, his tone blank.

"Stein," Finch replied. "He said he saw you looking at it, thought you liked it."

It clicked. That's why it was familiar – he had seen it in the actor's house the day before. It was literally Santa's Christmas tree. How or when Stein and Finch had brought it here was a mystery and the very fact that he had slept through all of it was quite disturbing.

"So, do you like it?" Finch repeated in a conversational tone.

Did he? He pondered the question, staring at that _thing_ in silence. It was probably too colorful, too big, too bright, too much of everything, but he guessed it could be considered nice. Sort of. "It's rather…blinky," he finally offered with a shrug.

" _Blinky_." Finch repeated. "Your eloquence never ceases to amaze me, Mr. Reese," he added, stepping back. His tone was wry, but it held a certain fondness. He threw John a considering look, studying him. "And how are you feeling?"

John shrugged again. "Fine."

A pointed look.

"Better," he amended, well aware of Finch's close scrutiny.

The staring went on for a couple more seconds, then suddenly stopped, the older man evidently satisfied enough with his assessment.

"I was about to prepare some tea. Do you want a coffee, while I'm at it?" Harold asked, limping towards the kitchen.

"I can do it, if you want," Reese offered, but Finch shook his head and wordlessly signaled him to seat, then disappeared in the other room.

After one last look to the tree Reese turned towards the table. Finch had evidently been busy, the ever-present laptop turned on and surrounded by sheets of paper and photos. Reese sat down at the table and lazily leafed through the pages scattered around.

"Stein gone?" he asked, his voice slightly louder than usual to be heard in the kitchen.

"It's Christmas Eve, Mr. Reese. He's busy tonight," Finch answered. "Lots of presents to deliver."

"I thought we agreed he's not Santa," Reese commented, scanning the documents in his hands. They looked familiar – mostly pictures of recent numbers and related research – except for one. It was a mug shot of a middle-aged man and Reese was sure he had never seen him before. He studied the picture, frowning, then looked for the name. It didn't ring any bell, and he turned the paper, perusing its contents. Only when his eyes caught sight of another picture – a black pickup – did it dawn on him. He put it back where he had found it. "And Fusco?"

Some clattering from the kitchen. "I asked him to take care of a few loose ends," Finch explained emerging from the kitchen, a steaming cup per hand. He offered Reese one, then went on. "The Paulsens were arrested half an hour ago. A "routine" checkpoint found the drugs and the weapons in their car, while they were on their way to _meet a friend_."

"Good. And Hansen?"

Harold sat down at the table, slowly sipping at his tea. "Released from hospital, currently in custody for suspected drug manufacturing and possession of illegal substances."

Reese nodded. After a beat he tapped a finger over the mug shot on the table. "And this? Another one of those loose ends Fusco is taking care of?"

Harold's gaze followed John's to the paper, his eyes narrowing minutely as he recognized the picture Reese was pointing at, then looked back up. "Maybe."

" _Finch_."

"John." Harold paused, frowning, then added, "he could have killed you."

"It was my fault," Reese replied meekly. "I was in the middle of the road."

"He didn't stop," Finch countered, persistent. Unmovable. His frown spoke of a righteous indignation that couldn't be easily placated.

John tried anyway. "Of course he didn't, I was shooting a gun! And this is New York, after all."

But Harold wouldn't back down. "Or, more likely, he didn't because he was afraid he'd get in trouble. They took away his license last year. A couple of DUI charges in 2010, and then a hit and run. That time he almost killed a woman with his reckless driving. He's lucky that they left it at that, if you ask me."

 _Oh._ Reese looked away, pondering the matter _._ So, he wasn't the only victim _._ Did this change things? He couldn't say.

"And Fusco is taking care of it?" he asked, after a while.

"Maybe," Finch repeated, his tone definitive. A clear signal that, for him, the matter was closed.

"We're making him work overtime, Finch," Reese commented only half-joking, silently accepting the other man's wish. "On Christmas Eve, no less."

"You think?"

Reese shrugged then collected his and Finch's empty cups and slowly got up. "Do we have any donuts left? Or anything else, as long as it's edible. I'm hungry."

"Well, Mr. Reese, I would suggest something more adequate than stale donuts," Finch said. "Turkey and ham sounds more like Christmas, doesn't it?"

Reese stared back, perplexed. He Hadn't pegged Finch for someone fond of festive traditions, let alone of the food variety. And he definitely couldn't picture the older man cooking a Christmas dinner. "Turkey…? How?"

"I had it delivered. Being the owner of the Coronet has its perks."

"You don't say. Well, turkey and ham it is then," John approved with a smile, carrying the cups to the kitchen, Bear happily trailing behind him.

Just as he was drying them up and about to stash them back in the cupboard he heard Finch's phone ringing, and made his way back to the main room to investigate.

It was Fusco, and Finch had put him on speaker.

 _"…_ _and Hansen has been blabbering about a dark- clothed intruder in his house who attacked him, but nobody's giving the slightest shit about him, so tell Wonderboy he's in the clear. An' I took care of that other thing that -"_

"Very well, Detective, thank you," Finch cut him off, "we greatly appreciate your help."

" _Yeah, of course_ ," Fusco scoffed, obviously annoyed.

Harold hesitated for a moment, looking pensive, then suddenly added, "Do you have plans for tonight Detective?"

"What? If you're thinking about sendin' me off with another one of your little schemes you can forget that," Fusco retorted, in a rather incensed tone. "I ain't doin' that!"

"I was actually wondering if you wanted to join us for dinner," Finch replied, apparently unfazed by the cop's belligerent indignation.

For a moment, Fusco was rendered speechless. " _Dinner_?"

"Yeah, Lionel, dinner. You know, that thing that you do when you sit around a table with other people and eat," Reese piped in, the chance to mock the Detective too tempting to be missed, and he promptly earned himself an exasperated look from Finch.

"So, Detective? You'll join us?"

" _No surprises? No last-minute jobs to pull off, people to arrest, places to go or anything_?"

"Your lack of faith is insulting, Fusco," John complained, "have we ever lied to you?"

"Just dinner," Harold confirmed, shooting another glare in the ex-op's direction. "You said it yourself that we owed you lunch."

" _Oh, well, then OK_ ," the Detective finally decided with a nonchalant tone that didn't fool anyone. " _I'll just hand in this paperwork and I'll be there_."

And it was only a couple of hours later that, during a brief pause from the pleasant dinner, John realized it. Finch and Fusco were animatedly discussing in the background – some improbable analysis of baseball statistics over time, something that he wouldn't have normally expected from either of the two – and the twinkling and brightly colored lights of the Christmas tree shone intermittently on the window as he gazed to the snow-covered streets below, reflecting upon the now closed case.

That's when he realized it. He was feeling…peaceful. Content. Satisfied, almost.

His cell phone buzzed in his pocket and he fished it out of it. A small smile spread on his lips as he read the brief text – just three words, but they were enough. He typed a response, equally concise, tapped the send button then slipped it in his pocket and got back to the table.

 _Merry Christmas, Joss._

 ** _The End_**


End file.
